Victory Revelry
by storycrewlover
Summary: Edmund, Rachel, and Peter celebrate victory with the usual consequences of partying too much.


They'd had a whole week to rest up from battle as they travelled cross country back to Cair Paravel, down the northern coast. The fighting with the Etinsmoor giants was not over, but they had driven the beasts back in time for winter; now both nations would be kept at bay until the snows melted.

Peter sighed with happiness, but also with trepidation, as the pale spires of his palaces neared.

"Good to be home . . ." Peter smiled and watched his brother's face twist into a grimace. "What?"

"Well, it's all well and good to be home, and of course I can't wait to see the girls, but- the _banquet_. You know there's bound to be some sort of victory feast, with hour long speeches from pompous prigs who go on and on about nothing . . . " The younger king scowled with displeasure.

"Yes. I feel quite sorry for you two." Rachel's words were kind, but her grin mocked the pair of monarchs.

"What, you think you don't have to go?" Peter accused, brows raised.

"I don't! I'm not royalty- just a simple general. I'll make an appearance at your feast, but afterwards I am free to do as I please- unless, of course, your Majesty orders otherwise?" Her lofty, grating tone spoke of punishment for the kings instead of subservience. Peter winced. He didn't know if she would trounce them both especially painfully in the training yards or withhold other . . . pleasures. Probably the former, but even so, better not to risk it.

"No, no, you may of course do as you please, Rachel, " Peter conceded. Edmund swatted first Peter, then Rachel, on the head, then dropped back to brood moodily over the coming hours of excruciating boredom. Rachel slowed, allowing Peter to take the lead into the large town that sprawled in front of the Cair.

She tapped Edmund as the returning army was surrounds by screaming townspeople, confetti, and streamers. "Ed, you can get away too. Peter's the High King, so he'll be the one in the spotlight. I reckon we can both get away- you fancy partying with the troops?" Edmund looked as if he could have kissed her.

"I will be _eternally_ grateful if you could somehow spring me from the speeches . . . _please_."

Rachel chuckled at his vehemence. "No worries. Look out for me at a side door and just pretend you have to use the restroom or something, and we'll go." King Edmund the Just beamed with more happiness even than his elder brother as the three separated from the army to enter the palace proper.

The flickering orange of firelight glowed over the hill as Edmund and Rachel crested the rise and gazed down at their troops' revelry. The large bonfire was surrounded by dancing figures, a crowd had amassed around eight massive barrels of drink, and in one corner some of the more musically talented- mainly fauns, joined by a couple of centaurs, belted out loud foot-tapping music.

"Yes!" Rachel yelled, sprinting into the middle of the dance after depositing her scimitar on a table piled high with soldiers' discarded weapons. Edmund's long-sword joined hers and soon after he was headed toward the crowd at the barrels.

After being whirled about by a dappled grey centaur captain by the name of Eyrel for several songs, she matched a line of satyrs in a variation of ancestral folk dancing involving fast kicking legs and synchronised arm motions. Finding herself out of breath, she dropped back and spotted Ed, roaring with laughter, trying to match Eyrel in a tankard for tankard contest with the mountain ale. She laid hold of his velvet tunic, dragging him away from something he would most definitely regret in the morning. "Aww, Rachel!" he protested as he was led to the mass of dancers. But soon he was giggling as he spun and was spun by Rachel. At the end of the rowdy drinking song, Rachel seized his middle and hoisted him off the ground for a dizzying spin. "Peter!" he shouted.

"Hah! Peter isn't here to save you, Ed." Rachel broke down into laughter as she set the youngest king down, collapsing onto his shoulder as her laughter incapacitated her.

"No, no, Peter!" Ed yelled into her face. Her nose wrinkled from his ale-breath.

"What?" She yelled back- it was very loud with the revelling soldiers and musicians.

"Peter's here-" Rachel whirled about as a warm hand descended onto her shoulder.

"Glad to see you two are having a good time." The blonde king smirked, then shook his head.

"Peter!" Rachel crushed him in a hug, then drew back. "Let's dance!"

"Sure- Ed, get me some ale?" His brother was unable to reply as the older king was whisked away by his partner. Twirling about, shimmying back and forth, wrapping their arms about each other and moving to the raucous melodies, High King and defender made their way back to Edmund. Peter downed his ale in one, then grabbed Edmund's and drank it too.

"Hey!" The dark-haired king protested.

"I'm thirsty, and you've already had more than you should." Peter justified, though his devious grin was evident as he wiped foam from his mouth.

"Come on, dance!" Peter was pulled back into the crowd, the pair leaving Edmund, who found a palomino archer for a partner. He ended up kissing the startled girl on the nose in a fit of drunken giggles.

Peter and Rachel, meanwhile, continued to dance, getting closer and closer together as the night wore on. When Peter, drunk by now off the ale Ed kept bringing him, and after kissing her passionately in the middle of all the dancers and causing her to turn red, tried taking off Rachel's tunic, she made the executive decision to put herself, along with Peter and Edmund (whom she knew would be out like a log if he didn't over-reach his capacity for alcohol) to Peter's chambers.

Ed slapped an arm across her shoulders and she yelped; the shoulder in question had been lacerated by a spear only a week ago. Edmund didn't notice, a sure sign that it was definitely time for him to retire.

"Rachel, you know-" Ed paused to take a breath and Peter seized the opportunity to slap a messy kiss to her neck, causing her to roll her eyes. "-you know," he continued in a slurred, happy tone, "I think I should learn how to throw knives."

"Oh really?" She grinned, suppressing a chuckle, at his utterly serious expression.

"Yeah, because- because it's always so _useful_. You know?"

"Mmm-hmm," she nodded, a strangled giggle escaping her traitorous lips. Edmund's face lit up; a bad sign, she knew from experience.

"Can I try _now_?"

"Can you try to chuck my knives now?" Her voice rose with incredulity.

"Yeah!"

"Um, no, Edmund, you cannot."

"But _why?_" His voice tripped over the words and she wiped saliva off her right cheek by raising her shoulder. Both hands were unavailable. One was supporting Edmund, the other was occupied, keeping Peter's hands a safe distance from her chest; he tended to forget about modesty when he was intoxicated.

"Because-" Her mind scurried for a quick second, "Because it's too dark out, Ed. How about in the morning?"

"Oh." His voice had fallen with disappointment. "I suppose that's alright, then."

They had made their precarious way up the back staircase and to Peter and Rachel's rooms. Edmund had refused to leave them at his door, so Rachel deposited the rapidly fading teenager in a plush armchair in a corner of the room.

She tried to shake Peter off at the foot of the four poster, but he wouldn't let go. She collapsed onto her trundle bed, making it clear there was no room for him.

"There's lots and lots of room up there, on _your_ bed." She slapped the luxurious coverlet above her with little hope that he would take the hint.

"Mmm." He snuggled closer to her, burying his face under her left shoulder, thankfully above her breasts- if he rested on them all night, they were sure to be sore in the morning.

"Peter . . . " She moaned, drawing out his name in exasperated complaint. "You're really heavy, you know that?" He let go, only to wrap his arms around her more securely and press a kiss to her face that half missed her lips.

"Go t'sleep, Rach . . ." He sighed, clearly out for the count. Oh well. At least they were in a bed instead of out on the lawn, like that first time the kings had tried the ale . . .

Sprints in full armour- while _hung over_ . . . who ever came up with such ridiculously taxing exercises?

Back and forth, back and forth, each time his breath came faster and harder until he was gasping and had to stop. Panting, pitched higher than his own.

"Whew, well! That was fun." Of course. _She _had come up with it. She and Orieus. Cursed girl didn't even drink, and she was conspiring to kill him and Peter with exhaustion and heat stroke . . .

"You all right, Ed?" Her hand clapped his shoulder.

"Oh, you know . . . just plotting the demise of you and Orieus for torturing your kings." She just giggled. Peter, in all his clanking glory, crashed to a halt by running into Rachel.

"Mmph! Want to watch out there, Pete?" Ed watched his older brother respond by draping more of his weight over his partner. She adjusted him so she supported him more comfortably.

"Alright, Peter. So, what have you learned about mountain ale?"

"It's delicious?" Edmund grinned at his comment. His head hurt, that was for sure, but his hang over did not hold a candle to his brother's.

"Shut up, Ed." Peter groaned. "It's an awful, despicable drink, that I will never again consume, not ever, not after any battle, not after any congress of nobility, even if the damn thing lasts a whole month . . . "

"That's what you said last time."

"Didn't I just tell you to shut up?"


End file.
